


Be'jetii Dikut'la

by Fight_The_Heteronormatives



Series: How Parent-Happy Clones saved the Galaxy [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Republic (Comics), Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: AND YOU GET A PADAWAN!, EVERYONE GETS A PADAWAN!, Humor, M/M, Master Yoda is a troll, Minor Injuries, Multi, Oops?, Separation Anxiety, YOU GET A PADAWAN!, adults who are trying their best, because kids don't do super-duper well, he's been training for this moment his whole life, no really Anakin is ECSTATIC to have a sister, seriously, when you ship them off to the outer rim alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-05
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-16 23:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29216037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fight_The_Heteronormatives/pseuds/Fight_The_Heteronormatives
Summary: Mando'a, lit. "Jedi Idiocy".After the padawan trials on Moi'cha, many masters decided that taking on a padawan in the middle of such conflict would be unwise. The padawans left over from said trials were left disappointed and confused, not understanding what they'd done wrong.Fortunately, they're not left to suffer long. Unfortunately, their masters' suffering is only beginning, as they try to figure out how to make inter-galactic conflict interesting and entertaining enough to be a decent, nostalgic childhood for the padawans in their care.At least their men are willing to help. There is absolutely no waythatcan go wrong. At all. It'll be fine. You'll see.
Relationships: Ahsoka Tano/Having The Brain Cell, Anakin Skywalker/Laughing At His Master, CC-2224 | Cody/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Series: How Parent-Happy Clones saved the Galaxy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2052921
Comments: 224
Kudos: 457





	1. Yoda Steps In

**Author's Note:**

> **Mando’a Translations (first how it’s used in context, then the literal translation):**
> 
> _Ad:_ Child.  
>  _Vod:_ Brother, lit. “Sibling.”

Of all the words one could use to describe the Krayt Clan’s quarters, _quiet_ generally wasn’t one of them.

They were a mixed-abilities clan; meaning they were difficult younglings who made things harder for the competent, well-behaved younglings of other clans. As such, they had all been tucked into the same group, in the hope that they could bolster one another. And so they wouldn't get in the way, Katooni suspected.

It had stung, when she’d found out. She knew she had trouble with attachment, that she struggled to let go. That she was prone to sobbing when separated from her caretakers for any stretch of time. But she didn’t think she’d been _that_ bad. Certainly not bad enough to warrant a whole clan dedicated to keeping her – and the others – out of the way.

In hindsight, though, it made sense. The differing clans came with differing teaching styles, to match their different needs. And they’d done well regardless; they were some of the best of their generation. Clearly, there was a method to the madness; and _mad_ it generally was.

Not today, though.

The only sounds in the room came from Petro, Zatt, and Gungi. Petro was packing; he’d been chosen as a padawan, and was now moving into his own, private quarters. He and the other human initiates had spent the last year growing out a tuft of hair under their right ears, and his was now neatly braided, a little yellow bead hanging just under his ear.

That bead was the one worn when studying Weapons-Based and Unarmed Combat. He’d do brilliantly.

Zatt was muttering to himself, poking at his datapad in frustration. He was the only other one of them being productive. He'd spent the last few days trying to figure out what went wrong; why only one of them had been chosen, and _just._

At the beginning of the Trials, he’d predicted they would all be taken. His confidence was absolute. They were skilled, capable, and already had some experience with dangerous situations. It was inconceivable that even _one_ of them would fail.

Now he was trying to figure out where they’d gone wrong.

Gungi was pacing. Katooni had grown used to the _thump-thump-thump_ of his heavy steps on the floor as he paced eleven steps across the back wall, pivoted, and marched the same number of steps the other way. Rinse and repeat. Every now and again he would kneel at the foot of his bed and try to meditate; but before long, he would growl in frustration and rise to start pacing again.

At a casual glance around the room, one could assume that Ganodi was missing. However, Katooni kept an eye on a suspicious bundle of blankets on the edge of her bed. It hadn’t moved in a while, but every so often a sniffle would escape the folds in the pile.

Byph sat on his own bed, knees tucked into his chest. He took their collective failure the best; he had always suspected he wouldn’t be up to form. He was; he had potential. Far rougher, less promising padawans had gone on to become incredible knights. She told him as much regularly; he might not be a legendary jedi, but one didn’t need to be _legendary_ to better the galaxy in leaps and strides.

She hated being wrong.

She herself was…disappointed. Disappointed and confused. She had worked so hard, and she’d done _well._ She _knew_ she’d done well! Only Scout had done better, and that was because _she’d_ had something to prove! There _had_ to be a master out there willing to take her on.

But no-one had. They’d all arrived home masterless.

Save for Petro, of course. Master Sinubé, of all people, had taken him on. Katooni could see he was unhappy. He’d hoped for someone like Quinlan Vos, Obi-Wan Kenobi, or Mace Windu. Someone whose reputation and presence could silence a room, and whose combative abilities brought a tear to the eye. Instead, he’d gotten their talkative old instructor.

To his credit, and in an uncharacteristic display of tact, he hadn’t complained once. Not in front of them, at least.

She busied herself making tea; the last cup any of them would have in this room. She needed something to do, something else to focus on. Something other than the depressing four days in transit back from the trials, and the unproductive three days after. They’d all received pitying looks and sympathy from many masters, but Katooni was less than appreciative. None had enough pity to take any of them on, after all.

Petro walked up to her, his pack slung over one shoulder. It sagged sadly; he’d yet to fill it with everything a padawan would need. Only his robes, datapad, and the datachips storing his first lessons for the year were packed. He’d need to head to the quartermaster, and get a list of necessary supplies from her.

He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, lost for words. He had no idea how to comfort any of them, or how to say goodbye. At this rate, he’d be their clan’s only jedi. Whenever he’d pictured their promotion from initiates in his mind, he’d seen it as far more celebratory.

“Are you going to be okay?” he asked.

She paused, and considered him. Then the other initiates behind him.

“Yeah,” she lied, passing him a cup of tea. “We will be. I’m sure.”

A long, awkward silence hung between them.

“So,” she said, straightening up. “I guess that’s you then?”

“Yeah,” he answered, “That’s me done.”

He looked around the room, and only just realized he’d likely never step foot in it again. They’d all been living here together since they were six-years-old. They still had a copy of the holograph taken on their first day; all in beige training robes, grinning wide enough to show off missing teeth.

They’d recently received another photo from their crechémaster, this one taken only a few days ago; right before their trials. The beige robes had long since been passed on, and the grins were far more nervous, but they looked happy. The bright colours of Moi’Cha were out of focus behind them.

(They all had an extra image sliced from their files; pictures taken of them when they first arrived at the temple. They weren’t meant to have those. They were a good luck gift from Zatt, for their trials. It was well-intentioned, and also against at least three separate rules, making it a very _Zatt_ kind of gift.

Two-and-a-half-year-old Katooni had been trying her best to hide behind the master holding her, and looked to be on the verge of scream-crying. She was touched, but also planned on burying that image where it would never be seen again.)

“I’m sorry,” Petro said. She could tell he meant it; he had tells when he lied. He focused on your eyebrows instead of your eyes, and his voice became more monotone to hide any sudden shifts in pitch.

“It’s not your fault,” she told him.

“Still,” he insisted. He opened his mouth again, and promptly lost his words.

Instead, he tugged her in for a hug. She froze; Petro had been nine when he decided hugs and kisses were too childish for his very mature self, so she struggled to remember the last time he’d shown her affection. She folded into it, and remembered that she’d been disappointed when he stopped giving hugs; he was good at them.

“Cut it out,” she mumbled into his shoulder, “You’re gonna make me cry.”

He huffed, and squeezed her tightly before releasing her.

“You’ll be okay,” he promised, “I’m sure. There are far more ways to help the galaxy than by being a jedi. You’ll still do amazing things.”

She nodded, but didn’t agree. She had no idea what other things she could do; being a jedi was something she’d already devoted herself to completely. She had no idea what else she could be, if not that.

The door hissed open.

The clack of a gimmer stick on the floor heralded Master Yoda, who quietly surveyed the room, large ears twitching.

“My,” he said, “Such grim faces, I see. Very grim.”

“Master Yoda,” Katooni greeted with a bow, Petro following her lead.

The others took their time. Byph unfolded his now-stiff joints carefully, silently slipping off the bed. It took real effort for Zatt to climb off the floor; he hadn’t moved in just as long, and Katooni suspected he wanted to stay there out of bitterness. Gungi dragged his feet as he made his way over from the back of the room. He paused at the end of Ganodi’s bed, navigating the sheets to reveal a teary-eyed rodian. It reminded her of how a magician might pull a depressed tooka from a hat.

In a few moments, they were all lined up in front of their grandmaster.

“So grim,” he repeated, giving them a sad smile, “Glad I am, that made it home safe, you did. Glad for no pirates this time, I am.”

The joke landed flat. Master Yoda wisely moved on.

“Ready to move are you, Petro?”

“Yes, Master,” he replied, sparing his clanmates a guilty look.

“Good, good. More news, however, there is.”

This got them to pay closer attention, though it did little for their overall mood.

Master Yoda smiled again, more happily than before.

“Congratulations to be offered, there are. Complications there were, before. Worries and concerns, many masters had. Young, you are, and dangerous, the war is. But changed their minds, many of them have. Made better preparations, they have.”

They shared confused looks. A tiny spark of hope lit up in her chest. She smothered it ruthlessly. She didn’t want to wind up disappointed all over again, if- _when-_ if-

“Chosen as padawans, you all have been. Prepare, you now must.”

It took a moment for the words to sink in.

The silence was broken by Gungi, who roared at the top of his lungs. Ganodi squealed and flung herself into Katooni’s arms; she barely had the wherewithal to catch her. Zatt’s datapad hit the floor with a clack, and Byph had to sit down.

Katooni burst out laughing. And crying. But mostly laughing.

Yoda cackled as well. “Better. Much better! More like you, this is. Glad to see it, I am.”

“We need to pack!” Zatt screamed, “We’re behind schedule! Do we have everything we need? Are we going to be deployed? Are we-?”

“Hush, hush,” Master Yoda said, regathering their attention. “Know who your masters are, you do not. Wish to hear _that_ first, you do not?”

They went silent immediately. Yoda cackled again.

He started on his left, with Byph, who shook in excitement. “Much consideration over you, there was. Some concern, but also potential. Requested by Master Fisto, you have been.”

 _“What!”_ Ganodi yelled as Gungi pat him on the back so hard he almost fell over.

Master Fisto. A _council member._ Unbelievable.

Byph had only just gotten back to his feet, only to need to sit back down again. Katooni couldn’t smother her laughter.

Yoda moved on to Zatt, who’d plucked his datapad – and jaw – up off the floor, and was now more nervous than Katooni had seen him in a long time.

“Much potential you have, and a strong desire to learn. Waiting for you on Kamino, Master Ti is. Enjoy it, I believe you will.”

A second round of cheering came up, this one just as enthusiastic as the first. Zatt short-circuited, unable to process Master Yoda’s words. 

After that came Gungi, who went from elated to nervous.

“A small argument over you, there was,” he said, “But won, the greater will has. Chosen by Master Secura, you have been.”

Ganodi threw her arms around him tightly, and Katooni was standing close enough to pat him on the shoulder. Byph happily returned the blow from earlier.

“And Ganodi,” Yoda said, turning his attention to her. “Much joy, you seem to bring to others. Hope that changes, I do not. Meet with Master Di in orbit, you may.”

“YES!” she yelled. Gungi picked her up and threw her in the air, before quickly setting her back down at Master Yoda’s look.

Katooni laughed, unable to stop, and found all eyes settle onto her. She stilled, and fought back the urge to fidget.

“Concerned, you are?” he asked her, “Questioned your destiny as a jedi, you never have. Only your ability to reach it.”

“…A little, master.”

He stayed quiet a moment longer, seeming to enjoy the uncharacteristic lack of patience. It wasn’t what she was known for.

“Heading for the Outer Rim, you are,” he told her. And, confusingly, she thought she heard a note of apology in his voice.

“Apprenticed to Master Kenobi, you have been. Congratulations.”

Dead silence.

Petro's cup of tea hit the ground with a _clack,_ spilling still-steaming liquid over the floor. he ducked down to pick it up, but the damage was done; they'd have to wait for a cleaning droid to come around to fix the mess.

“Sent to you datapads, your instructions have been,” Master Yoda continued, as if nothing had happened. “Pack now, you must, and visit the quartermaster and your chrechémaster. May the Force be with you.”

“And with you,” Katooni muttered numbly.

Master Yoda excused himself, leaving them behind. The silence lasted a beat longer.

“Katooni!” Ganodi screamed, wrapping her arms back around her. Gungi then wrapped his arms around them both, and heaved them into the air. Byph leapt onto Gungi’s back to squeeze her shoulder, and Zatt slung an arm around her waist in a hug.

When Gungi finally set her down, she rocked back into Petro, who set the cup back on the table harder than he meant to.

“Congrats,” he said. He didn’t sound particularly congratulatory.

“Petro?” she asked.

“C’mon,” he said, faking a smile, “We have to get packed. You guys are already behind.”

* * *

The afternoon was a rush of preparation, as when Master Yoda says you’re deploying, he apparently means you’re deploying _right now._ They all shipped out that day, at one time or another. The quartermaster, an elderly togruta woman, chastised them for leaving it till so late. They didn’t bother defending themselves; they had too much to do, and too little time to do it.

She read the checklist she’d been given many times over, terrified she’d miss something important. Given the sheer size of the warehouse-like structure the order used to store all their equipment and clothing, it wouldn’t be hard. The way it was set out, if you didn’t plan carefully, you’d wind up running the length of it several times over trying to get everything you needed.

And she was spoiled for choice. Right in the front of the five-story tall warehouse was clothing, climbing above her head in a dizzying array of colours, fabrics, and cultural paraphernalia. Tunics, obis, belts, and boots. You could spend hours on that _alone._ She had no time for that, though. Her initiate robes would have to do.

She grabbed a backpack, going for light purple only because it was closest. It had a smaller pack already tied to the top of it, for food and drink. The sleeping rolls were right next door, and she grabbed one of those, too.

She went through the rest with little thought to how her clanmates were managing. They were all rushing, and she was shipping out the soonest. She needed to get done. She caught sight of Byph perusing the padawan beads like a connoisseur, while Ganodi hauled Gungi around to get things off the top shelf for her. Other than that, she saw little of them.

She grabbed a plain, round orange bead from the elaborate rainbow shown in display cases along one wall of the warehouse. Politics and Conflict De-Escalation. She was glad she hadn’t thrown her braid away yet; she’d spent a lot of time on it. It was a short, four-strand piece made of white and silver nylon. She’d grabbed it from her quarters as she’d left, not sparing a thought for the room she’d likely never see again.

She grabbed a toolkit from the back, then three cans of cleaning fluid and four cloths. A communicator went in after them, followed by the datachips she’d need for her lessons. She paused only once, to check her datapad really was still in there. Her parka, a rebreather, a wetsuit, and a spacesuit followed. They were then accompanied by binocs, goggles, gloves, anti-bacterial swabs, and batca-patches. A lightsaber charger and clip for her belt, and a vibroblade. She then ran back for the stylus she’d forgotten, and only after managing that did she get a chance to sit.

She finished last. Their chrechémaster, Amo Gurumbi, was sitting at the front when she got out; a light green backpack in her lap and a blue one at her feet.

“Do you want me to check your kit for you while you grab something to eat?” she asked. She was hard to understand at times; the tusk-like protrusions from her lower jaw liked to get in the way of basic. As one of the only Tusken jedi to live so far, she was something of an oddity in the temple, her language completely unspoken. But she got the point across well enough, and Katooni sighed in relief.

“Yes please,” she replied, setting her bag by the blue one.

Katooni was happy for the break, but it was a short one. She rushed to the nearest cafeteria, grabbed some food, and two boxes of rations while she was at it. She didn’t know if the GAR stocked rations that were good for insectivorous omnivores. Hopefully, they could arrange for some to be sent. The baseline-human ones tended to disagree with her.

She grabbed sportsdrinks while she was there; the purple ones were the only ones compatible with insectivores and amphibivores. They only came in one flavour, but luckily, it was one she liked.

After that, the five deploying padawans raced for the Temple Hangar, only to find that wasn’t where they were meant to go. They caught a lyft to the GAR hangar, and from there found a Coruscant Guardsman nice enough to point them in the right direction.

She missed a lot of what he said, but she heard him point in the direction of her ship and say: “three minutes,” and she took off at a flat-out sprint.

She hurdled two troopers carrying a large supply crate between them, one of whom yelled “Hey!”. She was almost plowed off-course by an R4 unit, who let out a string of surprised binary. Then she leaped over the already-rising ramp and straight into a supply ship, tucking and rolling awkwardly with the pack on her back.

“Whoa!”

A trooper who’d had his eyes on his datapad was nearly a casualty in her rush to get on board. She just avoided colliding with him.

She somehow kept her footing, and bent over to set her hands on her knees. _Don’t throw up,_ she pleaded with herself. _Don’t throw up._ A stitch pulled tightly in her core, and she was breathing hard.

“Hi,” she said to the trooper, who had his datapad up between them like a shield. “Is this – uh, LSS one-eight-seven, unit fifteen?”

“Um,” he replied, “Yes?”

“Great,” she said, “Awesome. Thank you.”

She spotted an open spot on the bench clinging to the wall of the ship, and she stumbled over to it to sit down.

She sucked in a breath, held it, and breathed out. In, _one, two, three, four,_ hold, _one, two, three, four,_ out, _one, two, three, four._ Slowly, she got her heartrate back under control. The stitch in her abdomen loosened bit by bit, and she started to gather her wits back.

There were eyes on her. The focus was almost tangible, like sweat dripping down your back. It made it difficult to sit still.

“Uh, Sir?”

She opened her eyes and blinked at the trooper in front of her, the one she’d almost run over. He – and all the other troopers aboard – wore gold paint in contrast to the red of the Guard, which she’d begun associating with all troopers. A little cartoon of a blue twi’lek had been painted onto his helmet.

“May I see some ID, please?” he asked, keeping his tone light and non-confrontational.

“Oh! Uh…” she was supposed to have a clearance chip. Did she grab a clearance chip?

She reached for her belt, heart in her throat, and found the small silver square right where it was meant to be.

Master Gurumbi. Must’ve been. Bless her in all her future endeavours.

She plucked it off her belt and waved it under the pad’s sensor. A cheerful _Ding!_ Confirmed her permission to board.

The trooper immediately began browsing through whatever had popped up on his screen.

In the meanwhile, no-one had stopped watching her. She glanced around at them; some were in standard armor, like she was used to, and others were in specialized gear. She saw a few pilots, a demolitions expert, and a medic. All wore their armor strapped on tight, helmets on.

They didn’t look away until she met their eyes.

“…Alright then,” the trooper in front of her coughed awkwardly. “Uh, your quarters are on deck three, door eighteen. Do you need help getting there?”

She considered trying to navigate the ship on her own.

“Yes, please,” she answered, “Can we go there now, please?”

“…Sure,” he answered.

The walk to the turbolyft was short, the one to her room longer. Everywhere she went troopers stopped to stare. All wore that golden paint, but many had patterns and pictures painted onto their armor to set them apart. On deck three, they were more relaxed, and she saw many bare faces as they passed.

They looked younger than she’d expected. The commanders and captains back on Moi’Cha had been in their early twenties, but some of these troopers were younger; late teens, maybe. Just a bit older than Padawan Tano.

Despite intentional differences in their appearances – tattoos, make-up, scars, piercings, and natural mutations – they all gave her the same look when they noticed her. Half-surprised, half-accusatory.

She could’ve collapsed in relief when they reached her room.

“Thank you, Sir,” she said.

“Uh, welcome. Sir.” He replied.

She shuffled nervously.

“Um, if you don’t mind me asking,” she said, before he could walk away, “How long will it be before we meet with Master Kenobi?”

“About two-hundred-and-sixteen hours,” he replied immediately, “Even through hyperspace, it’s quite a way to the Outer Rim. That’d be nine day-cycles, give or take. Cafeteria is on Deck five, and your room comes with a ‘fresher.”

Nine days. That’s…longer than expected. Then again, she had no idea what she’d been expecting.

“Thanks again,” she said, and quickly ducked into her room.

She tripped as she stepped in. A swooping sensation tried to reorganize her insides; the feeling of a ship detaching from the hangar floor. They were in motion now.

Her room was basically a storage closet with a cot shoved into it. The cot could fit a human man exactly, and no being even slightly larger. There wasn’t even room to fit another cot in with it. The side not taken up by a cot lead to a ‘fresher that was even smaller, boasting only a toilet to one side and a sink facing it. A mirror hung above the sink, grimy and gross, and everything was stained, unpainted durasteel.

She sat on the cot, and realized her hands were shaking.

She took a deep breath in, held it, and breathed out. She was on the right ship, in the right room, and going exactly where Master Yoda had told her to go.

It was fine.

This was fine.

Except Master Yoda wasn’t here. And neither were any other jedi. Even in situations like the Gathering, at least her clanmates had-

Her stomach dropped.

She hadn’t said goodbye. Not to any of them. She’d been late, already cutting it close to get on her ship, and-

She hadn’t thought to say goodbye. She hadn’t stopped to think at all. When was she going to see them again? Would they all even be in the same place at the same time ever again? And what about the war? What if some of them _died?_ That was a real possibility now; what was the last thing she’d said to all of them?

She stood and threw her backpack onto the ground. Breathing wasn’t working. She began pacing the length of the room; five steps one way, pivot, five steps the other.

This wasn’t going to work. She’d only make herself dizzy.

She sat back down and started unpacking her pack. Everything quickly started piling up; clothes on the foot of the bed, her case of rations and drinks at the head of the cot. She only realized when she saw it how thirsty she was; she pulled out a bottle and drained it in one go. That wasn’t wise; she didn’t know what supplies were aboard. She didn’t know if she’d need to make these last.

Miscellaneous gear – the rebreather, the binocs, the goggles, and the toolkit went one way, landing on the floor by the ‘fresher. The communicator and cleaning stuff went the other.

She paused when she reached the bottom of the bag. A plush wool blanket was neatly folded into the bottom of her pack. It was made of alternating white and pink squares, with purple borders knitting them together.

She’d had that for as long as she could remember. All the younglings put in with Master Gurumbi got one. Some of Katooni’s earliest memories included watching the woman’s nimble fingers work strands of yarn into intricate patterns and shapes. She hadn’t understood back then how knitting and crocheting worked; to her, it had seemed like magic.

…Katooni was a padawan now. She was on the path to becoming a knight. It was about time she started eschewing material possessions. Jedi had to rely on the Force, and nothing but; she couldn’t afford attachments. Especially not to something as childish as a baby blanket.

She tugged it gently out of her pack and folded it tightly into her arms, knuckles turning white from the grip. It still smelt like the Temple; like laundry soap, and her old quarters, and honeyblossom incense. She breathed it in deeply, and lay down, keeping her arms around it the whole time.

Nine days.

She could manage this. The time would pass. She just had to hold on for nine days, and then she’d be in the Outer Rim with Master Kenobi. She’d have support, someone to rely on; someone to tell her what to do.

She just had to manage nine days.

* * *

“What do you mean, 'Kenobi has a padawan?'” Boil demanded.

“That’s what the file said!” Waxer replied, shoving his datapad between them like he could sacrifice it to Boil’s wrath in his stead. “Padawan Learner Katooni Sirah, assigned to _the Negotiator_ to study under Master Obi-Wan Kenobi.”

“Gimmee that,” Gearshift growled, snatching the ‘pad. “I swear, if it’s a stowaway, we’re sending it back in a shipping crate.”

 _“Her,”_ Waxer corrected, crossing his arms. “And I’m pretty sure it’s real. But why would he ask for a padawan and then not tell us about it? At least three troopers almost drew their blasters on her when she jumped aboard!"

“Better question,” Boil added, “Why ask for a padawan learner at all? We’re in a _war!_ Tano is great, sure, but she’s an exception to the rule, isn’t she? There’s no way bringing an _ad_ into this is a good idea.”

Gearshift pulled out his chair and sat at his station on the bridge. He was a navigator, but also had access to the GAR intranet from there. Thankfully, the captain had left earlier; hence why this loud debate was being held here, and not in the gym or cafeteria. He began typing away, frowning hard at the screen.

“She didn’t look old enough be a padawan,” Wooley said, “I get Tano was young, but even she was, what, seven? Seven-and-a-half? That’s fourteen or fifteen nat-ways, right?”

“Right,” Waxer answered, “This kid was six, tops. Not a day older.”

“I’m calling banthashit,” Boil said firmly. “No way they’re sending them out that young. The Jedi aren’t Kaminoans. They can’t possibly justify sending out new troops at that age.”

“Sorry, _vod,”_ Gearshift interrupted, leaning back in his chair, “It checks out. General Yoda signed off on her deployment personally. It’s legit.”

“But why wouldn’t he tell us?” Waxer asked, steering the conversation back to the real issue at hand. “We need fair warning for this kind of thing!”

No-one replied. Gearshift pulled off his cap and tucked it into his lap, thoughtful. Wooley sipped his caf. Boil kept glowering.

“Maybe-” Crys cut in from the top of the bridge, where he was minding it for the Captain. He stopped himself.

“Maybe…?” Waxer prompted. Crys had just rejoined them after getting out of ARC training on Kamino. His backbone had hardened a little, but he was still Waxer’s batchmate, shiny new armor be damned. He didn’t scare Waxer. Never had.

“Well,” he said, “You remember how they just kind of… _dropped_ Commander Tano on Skywalker? With no warning?”

“Do we remember?” Boil huffed. “We heard him complaining from the other side of Christophsis. _Of course_ we remember.”

Wooley caught on first. “They wouldn’t do that to Kenobi. He’s a High General, and a sitting council member. He told me once council members aren’t normally even allowed to take padawans. Too many other responsibilities. Ask any medic on board; Kenobi barely eats and sleeps with the workload he has now. They can’t just chuck an _ad_ at him. He’d crack.”

“…Probably,” Waxer conceded, “But still. He’s usually really good at warning us of new developments in advance. For him not to tell us about her is a bit out of character, isn’t it?”

“Tell ya what,” Boil said, “How about when we get there, _you_ ask him?”

Waxer was smart enough to back off from that challenge.

“Alright,” Crys said, “Back to work. You have better things to do than stand around and gossip.”

They groaned, but obeyed. Crys was still adjusting to the new power dynamic between him and the troops under his command, and no-one wanted to run laps in full kit. Again.


	2. Meanwhile, on The Negotiator...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Mando’a Translations (first how it’s used in context, then the literal translation):**
> 
> _Dar'yaim:_ Hell; a Place You Long to Forget. Lit. "Un-Place".  
>  _Vod'e:_ Brothers, lit. "Siblings, Comrades."

Well.

Kiros had been a fuck-up.

Every joint Cody could still feel ached. Every muscle was weak and strained, every sound distant and barely discernible, and his gut was a thickly-wound, frayed knot. He had no idea how he was still on his feet.

Kenobi had it worse; it was a good thing Cody had killed Keeper Agruss before Skywalker had arrived. The bastard got a quicker death than he deserved, and Skywalker would have made it _hurt._

Cody had never been so happy for a training accident and a broken wrist in his entire life. It could’ve been Rex in that facility. _Thank the Force_ it wasn’t.

Still, it was over now. Cody stood back on _the Negotiator,_ two steps behind and one to the right of Kenobi, who was using the holotable to hold himself up. General Koon and Commander Wolffe were small, glowing blue figures on the table, like Dejarik statuettes. Skywalker was doing most of the talking, from the other side of the table; though what he was saying went in one ear and out the other.

Commander Tano leaned over the table as well, both elbows propped up. She wore her old robes and Skywalker’s on top of it, wrapped tightly around her body like a blanket. Her cheeks were sunken, and dark rings circled her eyes. Other than that, though, she seemed alright. That was a relief.

Cody’s attention was sporadic; he could only focus on one thing for a few moments, before the world became numb again. The only thing that held his attention for any length of time was Kenobi; and that was all training. He was designed and conditioned so that in any circumstance, through any distraction, he could still receive and obey orders from his commanding officer.

Kenobi had thrown a grey-brown blanket over his shoulders the moment he’d been freed, well before Skywalker could see him. Cody didn’t blame him; he knew the mess he was hiding under there.

Finally, mercy of all mercies, Rex entered the room. He took one look over all of them, and approached Skywalker.

“Sir,” he said, “Can the rest of the debrief wait for tomorrow? It looks like everyone here could use some rest.”

Skywalker looked tired, too. Tired, jittery, and stressed. Cody recognised the look of someone who _needed_ to keep themselves busy, because work was the only thing distracting them from the pain; both emotional and physical. He looked around, and he sagged, like he hadn’t noticed how weak they all were beforehand.

“Yeah,” he said, “Yeah. Everyone dismissed. We’ll pick this up later.”

Cody nearly collapsed.

He followed Kenobi numbly. He paused only to snatch a medpac off a shiny who’d made the mistake of walking too close. He wasn’t about to shirk his job just because of some minor malnutrition, dehydration, severe bruising, and a possible mining-induced lung infection.

It took far too long to make it to Kenobi’s door. Cody was impressed; he’d bet that Kenobi would make it three-quarters of the way before dropping.

After opening the door to his room, Kenobi turned, and seemed surprised to find Cody still next to him.

“Cody?” he asked.

Cody watched his eyes. His pupils were unfocused. He swayed back and forth dangerously.

He held up the medkit.

“That ‘I’m okay’ may have worked on Skywalker, but I was there. You’re getting treatment.”

“I can call for a medic,” he answered sympathetically. “You must be exhausted.”

Cody had passed through exhaustion, tumbled into cognitive decline, and skidded straight into complete emotional and mental numbness. If he gave it a few more hours, experience dictated The Hallucinations™ would kick in.

But…

But. Kenobi had been knocked out, whipped, electrocuted, beaten, spat on, electrocuted again, and psychologically _wailed_ on over the course of the last few days. Cody was there. He’d seen it all. He needed to see him better, too, or any rest he got wouldn’t be restful.

“Humor me?” he asked.

Something in his voice, which sounded ever-so-slightly pathetic to himself, must’ve swayed Kenobi. It could’ve been something in his face, too. He felt naked without his helmet.

Either that, or they’d finally found the point where he was too tired to fight medical attention. He let him in without complaint.

Kenobi had a lamp on his tiny desk that was orientated to Coruscant time; it must be sunset there, as the light was peachy-pink and fading. It had been a gift from Skywalker. The whole room was exactly as it had been left; there were stacks of flimsy on the desk, along with his datapad. His brown robe was thrown over the edge of the cot, half piled on the ground.

Cody set the pac on the cot and began methodically stripping. He was hindered by habit; he kept reaching for the clasps on his armor, forgetting about the bronze Zygerrian junk he wore. It was an insult to armor everywhere; bulky and shiny and completely impractical. It was worse than dead weight. He was happy to drop it to the floor and kick it under the cot. Out of sight, out of mind.

Kenobi did the same. This was a familiar post-battle routine; remove tight clothing and treat for shock. They didn't normally do it together, though.

The grey-brown blanket fell off his shoulders, and his belt and wrap-thingy (obi, it was called an obi. Of course it shared a name with Obi-Wan Kenobi. The man was so jedi he’d very nearly been _named_ Jedi) were set on the desk. That was as far as he got alone; he unclasped his outer robe, tried to pry it off, and froze with a hiss.

Right. His back.

He reached out and tapped Kenobi’s shoulder twice, a combat sign for _all clear?_ He paused a moment, then nodded, dropping his arms back down.

He gently tugged off the outer robe, and it went easily enough. The second was half stuck; sweat and blood had dried into it, holding it to his skin. Fortunately, it didn’t seem to cause him too much pain when Cody pried it away.

The inner tunic was more problematic. Cody hadn’t quite been able to tell how bad it was before – he’d been a little busy – but he may have underestimated the damage. That, or the week or so between the injuries and now had made them worse.

He peeled it off, slowing down where necessary. The moment he got the fabric off his sides and away from under his arms, the smell hit. Neither of them smelt great, but Cody was sure _he_ didn’t smell like meat that had been left in the sun for too long. Kenobi could curdle milk in the state he was in.

The smeared, crusty blood hid exactly how many lash marks there were, and coal dust mixed with sweat coated him in mud, making it harder. His back was relatively clear, but not enough that Cody could see the wounds properly. He was bruised and swollen into a misshapen lump, his skin resembling rotting fruit more than a human back.

“You need to get clean,” he said.

 _“Ng,”_ was Kenobi’s uncharacteristically inarticulate response. “Tomorrow.”

“No,” he answered. “By tomorrow, this will definitely be infected. It probably already is. You’re taking a shower, or I’m calling the medbay _now.”_

Finding some clear skin on Kenobi’s shoulders, he steered him towards the ‘fresher. It was tiny, the small shower only capable of holding one person. Cody would have to stand outside, but he would manage.

He finished stripping Kenobi down, worrying about the lack of response he was getting for it. He stepped into the shower, no complaint or request to be left alone.

He’d been obedient, actually. Very obedient. Any objections he’d given Cody were token at best. He had half a mind to recommend the zygerrians as trainers on Kamino. Cody’s old drill instructors would be duly impressed by the quick work they’d made of his general.

He took several deep breaths. He had to focus on this. When he was done here, and had crashed for as long as he was allowed, he’d go break a few training droids. But right now, he had work to do.

Kenobi switched on the shower. It immediately poured out lukewarm, and Cody appreciated it. The sound of water hitting the metal floor, like rain on a tin roof, grounded him in the present.

Kenobi wasn’t as ready as him, though. He jumped, then bit his lip through a groan of pain. He was as stiff as a droid, muscles tense, and he rocked forward to hold himself up on the wall of the shower.

Cody worked quickly. They only had about ten minutes of real water; after that, everything would have to be cleared away with bacta and a towel.

He grabbed a washcloth and started rinsing the grime off with soft, circular strokes. Every time Cody unearthed a new cut, Kenobi would wince, or whimper, or both. He had to swallow down wave after wave of guilt.

He should get himself transferred after this. Good commanders looked after their generals, covered their backs and smoothed over their mistakes. Cody had been incapable of doing his job for this mission. Kenobi would be well within his rights to request a new commander, or to personally promote one up; but he wouldn’t. he tended to be kinder than that. Kind to a fault.

Cody got done within the ten minutes, though it took some quick scraping. He only declared his work finished when the water ran from brown, to fresh red, to a thin, diluted orange.

Afterwards, Cody pulled him from the shower and nudged him towards the bed. There were towels in the cupboard, ones that Kenobi should be able to reach on his own.

“Your turn,” he said.

Cody blinked at him.

He nudged him towards the shower, and he understood.

“I’m fine,” he said on reflex.

Kenobi stopped him with a hand, and managed to give him A Look. It was chastisement, which was Bad, but it was also reassuringly in character. Maybe Kedavo hadn’t broken him down completely.

Cody finished climbing out of his blacks and rinsed himself off as fast as possible. He only got two-and-a-half minutes or so, but it still felt good. You never felt like the battle was over till you washed what had to be half the battlefield off of you.

When he climbed out, Kenobi had managed to pull some pants on; the same brown trousers that he always wore, but a clean pair. It ended halfway down his calves, and cuffed at the end; which you never saw under the boots.

He hadn’t grabbed clothes, he realized. His own quarters were two corridors down and past three turns. They may as well have been all the way over on Coruscant.

He glanced at Kenobi’s wardrobe, considering. Kenobi was taller than him, but thinner. Hypothetically, he should be able to squeeze himself into something he owned.

He shouldn’t, though. His performance for this mission had been awful as is; he didn’t need to add _theft_ to the list of grievances Kenobi could air. But he wasn’t walking to his quarters and back. He wouldn’t make it. Besides, he would already be in trouble. What was one more misdemeanour?

If Kenobi was aware enough to realize Cody had somehow squeezed his way into a pair of pants at least three sizes too small for him, he didn’t let on. He was sitting on the cot, and listing dangerously towards the pillow he’d smuggled in from the temple. Unfortunately, Cody wasn’t done with him yet.

“Back,” he ordered.

Kenobi blinked at him, the request not computing.

He sat on the cot next to him made a twirling motion with his finger, and Kenobi diligently turned so that his back was facing Cody.

He covered the cuts in anti-bacterial cream, counting them as he did so. Only thirteen had broken the skin, and none had gone deep enough to rip the muscle. Most of them were located along Kenobi’s sides, behind where his kidneys and other soft flesh lay. The Zygerrians were masters of causing pain without causing value-decreasing damage.

His old trainers really _would_ like them.

He followed that up with strips of bacta. They were pre-cut to fit most types of wounds; which was good, considering you couldn’t cut or tear them yourself. It would be practical for them to be able to fit a wound, rather than hoping the wound would fit the patch; but this way, you had to pay more for them, and even order some custom cut. As one of its most infamous victims, he felt well-equipped to critique intergalactic capitalism.

Later. When he was capable of performing more than the very simplest tasks.

As soon as he finished, he started closing up the kit. He wasn’t looking forward to the walk back to his quarters. Maybe Kenobi wouldn’t mind him just resting here for a bit first…

A hand closed around his wrist.

“Neck,” Kenobi said.

“Sir?”

“Fair’s fair,” he drawled tiredly. “Pass the kit.”

Cody didn’t argue. He let Kenobi confiscate the kit, and pull out a same cream from earlier.

Cody had skipped the beatings, mostly, and he hadn’t been whipped. His problem was his neck. Every time Kenobi had stepped out of line; helped someone up, slowed his work, or even looked at a guard wrong, Cody’s neck collar got hit.

It got easier to manage after the first three or four times. The surprise had made it worse. Once Cody could brace himself, he could delude himself into thinking that made them easier. The problem was that _helping_ was one of Kenobi’s most deeply-ingrained instincts. It wasn’t something he thought about, and through the confusion and sleep deprivation, he would often forget the punishment for stepping in.

He did eventually drop the habit; but not soon enough to keep Cody’s neck intact.

He had caught only a flash of his throat in the reflection of the shower, but he’d been trying not to look. The bright reds, purples, and blues were enough to let him know it was _bad._ And the fact that it had since gone from agonizing to numb was…concerning.

Kenobi was much gentler than he needed to be while applying the cream to the sides of his neck, where blisters had broken the skin. He stayed as still as possible, refusing to flinch or react. He kept that up pretty well, right up until Kenobi reached for the bacta strips.

He looked at the long, thin strips of white material, thicker than gauze but softer, and his entire body reacted.

“No,” he said.

Kenobi blinked at him. “You need treatment,” he said, using the same tone of voice he used on senators who were being difficult. “If I have to sit through being looked after, so do you.”

He reached up with the strip, and Cody’s hands shot up, catching Kenobi’s wrists in a bruising grip.

 _“No.”_ He repeated.

They stared each-other down. Kenobi was always firm in telling his men they had a choice. That they could disagree with him, with his choices, and they wouldn’t be punished for it. But old habits died hard, and none of them – save for the medics – had actually tested how far they could push.

He took a deep breath. Tried to collect his scattered thoughts, finding it hard to think past a repetitive loop of _Force, I’m so tired._

“I don’t want anything around my neck,” he finally ground out. It felt like admitting a failure. 

Understanding dawned on his face.

“Okay,” Kenobi replied, expression twisting. Disapproval? No. Guilt? Likely. The man would blame himself for the very concept of evil existing if he could.

That would be another strike against Cody, today. Putting that look on his general’s face.

“Alright. Just bacta, then. I, uh-”

Cody remembered the tight grip he had on Kenobi’s wrist, and snapped his hands back like he’d been electrocuted. It was a feeling he was now intimately familiar with.

Kenobi finished up quickly, keeping his hands around Cody’s neck only as long as he had to. He zipped the pac back up as Cody came to terms with the fact that he had to get up now. He had to, he knew, this was Kenobi’s space; but his feet replied with a resounding _no,_ a notion seconded by every other working body part he owned.

The kit hit the ground, joining the filthy fabric and armor.

Kenobi dropped almost immediately. He fell sideways, landed somewhere in the approximate area where his pillow was, and tucked his feet behind Cody. In moments, he was snoring.

 _Up,_ he thought. It was time to get up. He had to leave. Down one corridor, right turn, down another, left, then left again. Then he could drop. That was all. He could manage that, couldn’t he?

He tensed his muscles to stand, and his left calf went straight into cramp.

He made a sound between a growl and a groan, and lifted his leg to begin massaging the cramp out. It took several minutes of frantic toe-wiggling and rubbing his hands over the limb for the ache to fade. And even then, it had the tender feeling of a muscle that would go straight back into cramp if he even looked at it wrong.

He’d just. Rest here a bit. Just lie down, and let his body rest.

He wouldn’t stay, or fall asleep. This wasn’t his space. He couldn’t.

He just- needed a minute.

He’d just be a minute.

* * *

Obi-Wan was the first of them to wake.

He drifted back to awareness slowly, becoming personally reacquainted with each ache, sting, and burn as he woke.

It wasn’t all unpleasant, though. The ships in the GAR – most ships, really – kept the temperatures low for the sake of power conservation. Despite that, there was something soft and, more importantly, _warm_ tucked into his front. He wasn’t awake enough yet to take a gander at what it was, but it softened all the hard edges of the world around him, blotting out the lingering trauma their ship was always coated in.

That was what woke him, in the end. He felt _safe._ Safe was an alien sensation, a variation from the norm, and it unsettled something in his chest.

He opened his eyes.

The light in the room was a warm reddish-gold. It must’ve been dawn on Coruscant. The room looked prettier like this, as far as Obi-Wan could tell; his vision was blurred at the edges, and everything was a touch out of focus.

He took a deep breath in, and the muscles over his back burned. There was a wheeze in his chest that should probably concern him, and nausea rolled in his stomach, despite how hungry he was.

 _Hey,_ his brain chipped in at long last, _wasn’t the light red when you went to sleep, too?_ He’d definitely been down awhile. Did he sleep a full twelve hours? Who _the Hell_ let him sleep that long? There was paperwork he had to do! And briefings, and requisitions, and-

He shifted slightly, trying to gather his thoughts. Something heavy was draped over his hips. He looked down, taking a moment to figure out what he was looking at.

Black hair. Brown skin.

_Cody._

It hit him all at once. He remembered. Zygerria, the colonists, Kedavo. His stomach cramped threateningly, and he felt his mouth water in preparation for him to puke.

He looked down at Cody again, looked for injuries; for signs they’d really made it out. Cody’s face was pressed into his sternum, one arm thrown over him – that’d be the weight on his hips. He’d curled around him.

He’d stayed. Obi-Wan forced his way past the harsh memories, the ache in his body, and focussed on that.

He must’ve stayed all night.

More, less distressing memories flooded back. Cody accompanying him back to his room, cleaning him, treating his wounds. Making sure he was alright.

His throat tightened, and his eyes stung.

He wasn’t- people didn’t generally _stay._ Not for him, not really. He was the one catching up to others, moving with them; he’d been the eldest of his chrechémates, and had helped push them along; then watched as they surpassed him with a bitter kind of pride. He’d done more looking after Gui-Gon than vice versa; the man was a host unto himself. He had been left at the Trials, left on Melida/Daan, left for a too-old slave boy Qui-Gon had found in Tatooine’s sands. And then left for good on Naboo.

He wasn’t used to people staying. But Cody _had._

Obi-Wan felt a puff of hot air on his stomach, and he flinched away reactively.

Oh. Oh no. No, this was- okay, he needed to move. Right now. Before he embarrassed himself.

 _Further,_ his brain reminded him. He did let Cody _shower him_ last night. He didn’t have that much dignity left to lose.

Cody shifted slightly, mumbling in his sleep, then went still. Obi-Wan froze as well.

Cody pulled his face away from Obi-Wan’s gut, blinking in confusion. Then Obi-Wan was hit with an overwhelming wave of sheer, absolute _mortification._

Well. Good to know Obi-Wan wasn’t the only one to find this awkward.

“Good morning,” he offered around a wheeze. “Sleep well?”

Cody held himself still, like if he didn’t move or make any noise, Obi-Wan might forget he was there.

“I’m…so sorry, Sir,” he said, pulling away, off the edge of the bed.

He stopped halfway, and couldn’t quite shove down a grunt of pain.

“It’s alright,” Obi-Wan said, trying to keep his tone casual. “It’s okay. Your presence is a comfort. Especially after…”

He didn’t bother to finish. Cody relaxed, minutely.

 _Force,_ Obi-Wan’s face must be a _sight._ Hopefully, he has enough bruises and scrapes to cover the blush that must be working its way up his face.

“Are you, um-” Cody got stuck for a moment. “Okay? Obviously, not, sorry, but-”

“I’ll be fine,” he interrupted gently. “I’m not right now, of course, but I will be.”

A moment of awkward silence hung between them.

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to tell the medics I’m in perfect health, though? There’ll be a promotion in it for you.”

“Firstly, they won’t believe me,” he answered, grateful at Obi-Wan’s attempt to lighten the mood, “and secondly, if you promote me again, I will desert. There’s only so much paperwork a person can be expected to do, and I refuse to do _more.”_

Obi-Wan chuckled, then stopped. His vision had cleared slightly with wakefulness, and certain things came into focus.

Observation number one: Cody was still wounded. He could feel the dull throb of pain in the Force, tightly restrained but present. His neck had settled into a proper bruise, angry splashes of blue, purple, and red. It was swollen, too; especially around the blisters. His wrists were also swollen, likely his ankles too, from the work they’d been put through.

Shit.

He should never have let that happen.

Observation number two hit him like a planet: Cody was wearing his clothes.

No. No, not his clothes. His _pants._ _Just_ his pants, which were far too small for him, leaving angry red marks along the waistline.

They were also straining at the seams, as Cody’s thighs were much thicker than his were.

Which was. Oh, dear. If he stayed as he was much longer, he really _would_ embarrass himself.

“I should, uh,” Cody crawled off the bed, finding his balance with only a slight wobble.

Obi-Wan cleared his throat. “Right. Yes, I…”

He didn’t quite know where he was going with that sentence, so he let it trail away awkwardly. By the time he’d swung his legs over the edge of the cot, Cody had shoved their old clothing down the laundry chute and made a quick escape.

Obi-Wan sighed, partly in relief, when he heard the door close. Force, that was awkward.

He grabbed for his datapad where it rested on the nightstand, missing once and managing it on the second try.

_General Alert: 63 Notifications, 13 submissions._

_Priority Alert: 1 Notification._

He opened up the priority alert.

_WINDU_MACE: Council session scheduled for 10 AM standard. ALL councillors requested._

He groaned. He knew, without the Force needing to offer even the slightest warning, that this was going to go _terribly._

* * *

Cody was not having the very best day of his life.

He snuck down the hallways on quiet, bare feet, taking advantage of as many blind spots as he could find. He did _not_ need this circulating; Force only knew what the troops would do with footage of him in this state; what his batchmates would do. Fox, Wolffe, Ponds; _Rex_.

No. It didn’t bare thinking about.

The cool air made the hair on his body stand straight up. He probably could’ve crawled back into his blacks and saved himself the chill and the embarrassment, but one sniff had dissuaded him of that idea. No way in _Dar’yaim_ was he climbing back into that heap of toxic waste.

The first sign something was wrong appeared just outside the hallway leading to his quarters. Two cleaning droids were stalled, beeping in agitation. They rolled back and forth as if they were trying to roll towards his room, but kept bumping into an invisible wall.

He paused.

Cleaning droids had sensors that allowed them to avoid bumping into objects, but they were also finicky and rude. Their programming registered clone troopers on the same level as droids. So, if you didn’t get out of their way – or were, for example, sleeping in a cuddle pile on the floor after a bad campaign – they would try to ride over you.

However, their programming forbade them from rolling over substances like blood, that might be essential evidence in a crime. That edgy back-and-forth they were doing reminded him a lot of droids trying to fight conflicting programming. The beeps were turning from anxious to annoyed.

He moved forward slowly, breathing lightly through his mouth to keep as quiet as he could. His fingers itched for a blaster, but his was in his room, past whatever was holding up the droids.

He peered around the corner, and barely withheld a sigh of frustration.

A small pile of _vod’e_ lay sleeping in front of Cody’s door. And between them and the droids was about a liter of spilt red sportsdrink, long dried and sticky. Clever bastards.

Right in front of the door lay Rex, flat on his back, helmet next to his head. He was sandwiched between his ARC twins, who had each wrapped themselves around their Captain and reached over him to grab each-other. It would’ve been cute in any other circumstances, but Cody was too frustrated at their presence to think so today.

Alongside them, listing dangerously close to the sticky puddle of sportsdrink, was Lamb; a shiny two-twelfth medic who’d been designated the battalion’s Kenobi-wrangler. He was one of the speedies Kamino had pumped off the conveyor belt before they’d even finished their last growth spurt. Baby fat still clung stubbornly to his face, and his armour was still just a touch too big for him.

It made something in Cody’s chest ache, to see such a young trooper out here. Kenobi had it worse, getting wrapped up in guilt and anger at their presence in the war; hence why Lamb treated him. Kenobi was weak for shinnies.

Lamb was also smart; he’d had the wherewithal to use a stuffed-full medkit as a pillow. The others had not.

He supposed he should be flattered. The fact that they’d waited for him showed they cared, if nothing else. But it also meant they knew he hadn’t made it back the night before. Which could become. Problematic.

Staying as quiet as possible, he stepped over the puddle and placed one foot between Lamb’s legs. Moving slowly, he placed all his weight down on that foot and lifted his other, trying to find the best spot by Rex to set down. He prayed Lamb’s ability to sniff out runaway patients wouldn’t wake him.

Behind him, the droids continued their frantic beeping. They had slid from annoyed to properly pissed off. Cody’s binary was rusty, but he thought he heard one drop the phrase ‘unionizing’. Ratchet was going to _love_ that.

Carefully, he stepped into a small patch of floor between Echo, lying closest to Lamb, and Rex. He was a hair’s breadth from brushing up against Rex’s armour; a move that would wake him immediately.

Now came the real challenge. There was no chance Rex wouldn’t wake when the door opened; Alpha had trained him far too well for that. But he was currently encumbered by two clingy ARCs, and if Cody was quick, he could have the door open and closed again in two-point-five seconds.

Rex still might be fast enough to catch him; but Cody was hoping Lady Luck would pick now to swing in his favour, given that she’d been pummelling him all week.

He took a slow, deep breath, and hit the keypad. _Ding!_

Rex’s eyes snapped open.

He dove forward, tucking and rolling into the room. Not his best work – every joint throbbed, and true to threat, his left leg cramped again, throwing him off. But he ground his teeth, shoved the pain aside, and snapped that same leg out to hit the keypad with his heel.

 _“Bastard!”_ Rex screamed, but Cody was right. His ARCs were still rising, half-draped over his legs. He kicked them away, possibly a bit harder than necessary, but he was too slow. Cody was on his feet again, and he’s going to do it, he’s putting in the lock code and-

 _Thud!_ Instead of slipping closed with an almost-silent _whoosh,_ the door meets an obstacle.

A medkit, shoved in the way in an act of desperation. Lamb lay on his stomach, eyes wide, looking more surprised than anyone else that that had worked.

The door quietly slid back up into its frame, as it was built to do when interrupted.

Cody closed his eyes, and braced himself.

“Commander,” Lamb choked apologetically, staring hard at his legs and absolutely nowhere else.

 _“Commander,”_ Fives greeted, tone reverent and awestruck. Rex’s face stretched into a feral grin, eyes roaming his body, noting the pants with particular glee.

Echo had his helmet on, now. There was a small red light blinking next to his visor.

He was recording. Oh, he was going to pay for that.

“Sir,” Rex greeted, grin firmly in place. “Oh, this is _so_ worth the night on the floor.”

“I appreciate the concern,” he growled, “But I’m fine. Dismissed.”

“This is _not_ going to be that easy,” Rex answered. He had a hand fixed on the keypad, pressing the _hold_ button tightly. Why did Cody even like him?

“Uh,” Lamb leaped to his feet, took one look at Cody’s face, and made the gracious decision to save Rex’s life.

“That wound looks like it could use some reapplication, Sir?”

Rex’s eyes trailed to his neck, and he sobered slightly.

“Will you leave afterwards?” Cody asked.

“Yes, Sir,” Lamb promised, “And I’ll take them with me.”

“Done. Make it quick.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CT-9886, AKA Lamb,** belongs to SniperAnon (The_Big_Reveal). He's a gift, and I adored reading about him, so I borrowed him (with permission!) Read about him here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25599550
> 
> See you next week, babes!


	3. In Transit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Mando’a Translations (first how it’s used in context, then the literal translation):**
> 
> _Di'kut:_ Idiot, Fool.
> 
>  **Note:** A child is injured in this chapter. If this is upsetting or triggering for you, please proceed with caution. Don't worry, it's not serious!

Katooni woke the next morning nauseous, her head pounding with pain. It thudded right behind her eyeballs, making her head feel like it had been stuffed with cotton. Her mouth was painfully dry.

She groaned. Hyperspace sickness. _Joy._

Her arms didn’t want to unclench from her blanket. Sleeping so stiffly, her grip white-knuckled, left her slow and sore as she unwound.

She rolled to her feet, her stomach rolling over with her, and she bit the inside of her cheek. Her stomach clenched threateningly, but thankfully, she didn’t puke.

Her things lay scattered all over the floor. Either she’d been a lot rougher with them than she remembered, or she’d slept through quite a bit of turbulence.

Ugh. Nice start to the trip.

She dragged herself to the bathroom and washed her face in the sink. Her reflection was half-hidden behind layers of old grime. She looked awful; pale and shaky and not at all like a clean-cut, professional padawan.

She drank the last of her sportsdrink, forced herself to nibble on a ration bar, and then tried her best to clean up a little. She didn’t have the energy to look under the cot, or to put everything away neatly, but she got some order back. That would have to do for now.

She knelt and meditated for a solid hour, slowly easing away her headache and successfully regaining some stability.

She would stick as closely as possible to her old routine, she decided. She checked her datapad for the time, and was surprised to find it about four in the morning, standard. She’d slept eleven full hours. She must’ve been exhausted.

Her stomach grumbled a complaint. She was starving. She’d been too depressed for breakfast the day before, and had slept straight through dinner. Did they have rations set aside for tholothians? Was she meant to ration what she had now till she made it to _the Negotiator?_ They can’t have sent her ahead without the necessary supplies, she was sure. She’d just have to poke around, and see what was where.

Oh Force, was she a commander now? She knew nothing about military procedure. How did one…command? In an official capacity? Would she be given an instruction manual? Would she be given time to read it, or expected to learn as she went along?

She was _so_ hungry. She needed to eat. She wasn’t going to sort through all of this on an empty stomach. She had eight-and-a-half more days to figure this out. She’d manage.

She listed today’s priorities: Find the cafeteria, and eat. Find a place big enough for lightsaber drills, and see if she can use it to train. Find the showers, and take one. Lastly, figure out who was in charge of the ship, and introduce herself, like she should’ve done yesterday.

That was just four things. She could do four things in one day. Hell, she had sixteen hours before she needed to get to sleep again. She could spend four hours on one thing at a time! That couldn’t be too difficult.

She had this. She could do this. Master Kenobi wouldn’t have asked her to be his padawan if she couldn’t manage four simple tasks.

First up: food.

She fixed her robes, checked the charge on her ‘saber, and left her room.

A trooper outside pointed her in the direction of the cafeteria, up to deck five and down the hall.

That was easy enough. Less easy to manage was the way everyone went dead quiet the moment she stepped inside.

They all turned to stare at her. Few had their helmets on, so few had anything hiding their looks. They weren’t even trying to be subtle.

She took a deep breath, and looked for the food. A line had formed close to the entrance, along the right wall, where one could pick up a tray and receive food from a trooper standing behind a table. A reassuringly typical cafeteria set-up.

She stepped into line behind the last trooper, tucked her hands behind her back, and kept her gaze fixed ahead. She was meant to be here. She was okay. She _was_ meant to be here.

Slowly, conversation resumed; but no-one forgot her presence.

When she finally made it to the front, a trooper handed her a plate with small, powdery beige squares on it. They were bite-sized, and smelt like nothing.

They _probably_ wouldn’t poison her? Maybe?

There were a few empty tables, as it was still fairly early. Most of these guys were probably coming off the night shift, grabbing food before heading to bed. She had options, but decided to take her tray back to her room. A trooper at the door looked as if he wanted to stop her, but decided against it.

When she got back, she leaned against the door and slid down it with a sigh. She checked the task off on her datapad, and braced herself for the next task.

The food was bland. It tasted about the same as it smelt, and she desperately hoped this was just travel fare, and the food aboard _the Negotiator_ would be better. Still, it did it’s job, and her hunger ebbed away completely. With that gone, it was easier to think.

She decided to give it a while before heading out to find a training spot. In the meantime, she checked that all her lessons were accounted for, neatened her bag, and cleaned her room. She may have to meditate again soon; the ache was seeping back into her head, a building pressure that spelt trouble. Whether it was stress or the return of the hypersickness was anyone’s guess.

She stretched out once her things were in order, but couldn’t do much else. The room was just too small. By the time she felt brave enough to face the rest of the ship again, it was about seven.

She managed to catch a trooper in the hallway, who pointed her towards the gym, which was on the same floor as her room. She thanked him quickly and darted off, feeling eyes on her the whole way.

She shouldn’t let it get under her skin, she knew; but it was hard to ignore. She felt like some exotic bug pegged to a glass case in some senator’s office. She walked faster.

She reached the gym and found it occupied only by three other people. They stopped to give her a cursory glance, but immediately returned to what they were doing. Finally, a small mercy. 

She sagged in relief when she finally pulled her lightsaber off her belt and lit it. The powerful thrum of energy running through it was a balm; something she could focus on beyond the situation she was in right now. The circumstances may be new, and scary, but her drills were as familiar as breathing to her, and her lightsaber more so.

She started with Form One, _Shii-Cho,_ making her way through the best-remembered and most basic of steps; first right-sided, then left. She, and most other jedi, never even remembered learning these steps; in much the same way she couldn’t remember learning to walk or talk. They were simply things she could do, had always been able to do. It filled her with a sense of comfort.

She noticed the troopers’ conversation had ceased, but paid it no mind.

She moved up to Form Two, _Makashi,_ her favourite. Then to Form Three, _Soresu;_ which she knew to be Master Kenobi’s specialty. She trained with that one for longer than the others, wanting to be as good at it as possible before arriving.

She became so wrapped up in her training, she failed to notice the crowd forming.

She moved from Form Three to Form Four, _Ataru,_ a much more athletic and broad style. It was here she caught on; troopers hurriedly scrambled back as her movements shifted from tight, neat blocks and stabs to wider, more aggressive movements. She paused and looked around.

At least twenty troopers, in various states of dress, surrounded her in a loose ring.

Alright. That was enough.

She powered off her lightsaber and clipped it back to her belt.

“Is there something I can help you with?” She asked, trying to stay polite, but likely failing.

A few troopers shuffled slightly, some looking away. Only one stepped forward.

She recognized him; or more accurately, the little cartoon of a blue twi’lek smiling happily on his helmet. It was the trooper who’d helped her to her room yesterday.

“Hi,” he said, “We, uh- we just wanted to say hi, and welcome, I guess. You’re, er, very good with that. The lightsaber.”

“…Thanks,” she replied.

A moment of painful silence passed, before another trooper stepped forward; this one helmetless, with a defined goatee and a particularly stern brow.

“Sorry about that,” he said, sounding much more at ease than his brother. “Waxer here can be real bad with people, despite how many strays he tries to bring on board.”

He doesn’t give Waxer’s hissing any mind, and powers on. “I’m Boil. We’re sorry we haven’t introduced ourselves before now, but you were something of a surprise; we weren’t aware General Kenobi had even taken a padawan before you showed up.”

The knot of tension in her gut eased a little. “That’s okay,” she replied with a smile, _“I_ didn’t even know I’d been picked until yesterday morning. I wound up running a little late because of it.”

“We noticed,” a trooper from the crowd said. A few of the men around him stifled laughs, while another elbowed him.

“In any case,” Boil continued, “It’ll be nice to have another jedi around helping out. Right, Waxer?”

Waxer jumped slightly. “Yes,” he said, “Absolutely. Commander might finally get some f- uh, some…fricking sleep.”

“I’m glad to help,” she replied, “I’m Katooni.”

“Good to meet you,” Boil said firmly.

They slipped into another silence, this one much less tense. The troopers around them picked up their own conversations, and some moved to leave, assuming the show was over.

“Do you want to spar?” Waxer asked suddenly.

Silence. The troopers all turned to him en masse, none more pointedly than Boil, who’s slow turn of the head suggested imminent violence.

“Um,” she considered, “Sure?”

They turned back to her.

“Really?” Waxer asked, more surprised than any of the others.

“Yeah, okay,” she decided. “I mostly spar with my crechémates, who’re all my age. It’ll be nice to practice with someone bigger than me.”

“…Cool,” Waxer answered, “Yeah, I’ll just…”

He pulled off his helmet, revealing a small soul patch on his chin, and began stripping off his armor. She strolled to the bench set along one wall, kicked off her boots, and set her lightsaber next to them. She pretended not to see Boil cuff Waxer upside the head.

The number of troopers had miraculously doubled in the time it took her to get ready. Waxer formed up hesitantly on the mat, and she matched him.

He wasn’t eager to throw the first punch, only watching her carefully; so, taking the initiative, she tried to swipe his legs out from under him. He dodged automatically, and lashed out a soft side kick. She felt it coming a moment beforehand, and slipped aside easily; then lashed out with a kick of her own. Her heel drove solidly into his solar plexus, and he stumbled back with a cough.

A few of the troopers around them cheered. Several simply burst out laughing. She grinned shyly.

“Okay,” Waxer said, stepping in again, “Okay.”

The next kick was quicker, sharper, and far less hesitant. She dipped one way, felt a tug from the Force, and dipped the other before another kick could take its place. He threw a punch and she grabbed his wrist, twisted sharply into his guard, and flipped him over her shoulder.

She kept ahold of his wrist to make sure he landed safely, but dropped him the moment his back hit the ground. She curled into a neat back-handspring to get herself out of range, so that he couldn’t try to sweep her legs.

The cheering rose in pitch.

Waxer climbed to his feet, and someone yelled: “Kick his ass, Sir!”

“Language!” Another yelled back.

A new wave of laughter rolled over the group, and she relaxed. This was a lot better than the staring from before, even if she remained the center of attention.

Waxer came at her, and he was fast. Very fast, for someone as big as he was. She slipped into his guard again, used his knee as a stepping-stone, and swung up onto his shoulder. She got an arm around him, twisted, and they both flipped forward and landed on their backs. She locked her legs around his arm and pressed her hips up, pushing his elbow in the wrong direction.

He struggled for a bit, grunting, then tried to stand up. Given he could probably take her weight and lift her, she applied more pressure, and felt the joint start to bend.

He tapped the mat twice, and she let go immediately.

“Not bad,” he said, letting her help him to his feet. His brothers immediately began ribbing him, thumping him on the back and jeering. It reminded her strongly of how youngling clans would interact, with equal amounts of mockery and affection for each-other.

“Oh, you all think it’s so funny?” Waxer said, “Why don’t _you_ try, huh?”

Boil went next. He fought like Waxer, with quick, hard blows. She got him down relatively quickly, and when people laughed, she joined in.

Next up was Gearshift, who worked in navigation. He fought dirtier than the other two did, and if it weren’t for the Force, he’d have caught her out once or twice. By the end of the last fight, she was loose and fever-warm. She should be careful; tholothians don’t sweat, so she’s prone to overheating. But she could probably go one more round before needing to stop.

“Hey, Crys!” Someone yelled, “C’mon, you’re next! Let’s see all that fancy ARC training at work!”

Every other trooper joined in, and whether Crys wanted to or not, he was swept up into the crowd and shoved onto the mat.

He was fancier than the others, with odd skirt-thingies and extra-fancy pauldrons attached to his shoulders. A secondary battery pack was strapped to the front of his chest, over his right breast. He was clean-shaven with bleached blond curls, and seemed bashful as he approached.

“Okay, kid,” he said, and immediately, she was more worried. The others telegraphed their moves relatively clearly, but this trooper felt sharper, more dangerous. An odd, fluttery feeling settled into the bottom of her lungs. _Be careful._

He was faster than the others, more precise in his movements, but she managed to keep up. He threw a punch, she stepped aside, and threw a side kick into his gut. He didn’t block, didn’t stop, even though it must’ve hurt.

He kicked at her, and she dodged, then blocked another kick. It connected with her arm, and she felt the force of it all the way up into her shoulders. She swiped at his knees, managed to slip a hold he almost got her into, and-

She wasn’t quite sure what happened. Maybe she got low at the wrong time, or maybe he was just not used to fighting someone her size. He threw a back kick, and she accidently turned straight into it. The Force flared a warning, but he was too fast to stop.

The heel of his foot connected right with her face.

She landed on her backside, and nearly rolled head-over-heels with the force of the blow. Her hands shot up to cover her nose, a whine escaping from her mouth, and pain flared white-hot in her face.

“Oh, Force, _fuck,_ I’m _so_ sorry-”

“Crys, what the _fu-?”_

_"Di'kut!-"_

“Oh _Gods,_ is she alrigh-?”

“Hey, _hey,_ kid, can you-?”

“No, no, give her _space-”_

“Kid-?”

They crowded around her, blocking out the light. Someone grabbed her shoulder, someone else grabbed her arm, and another tried to pry her hands away from her face, which throbbed like someone had stuck her full of hyponeedles. They all talked over each-other, getting louder and louder. They buzzed with concern, panic, guilt, and it- she- it-

Someone grabbed her hands and _yanked,_ trying to check the damage, and she snapped.

Her hands released and pushed _out._ A lightning-quick burst of energy ripped through her. It burnt with pain and panic, and with several yells, the light was back.

She had flung the men back several feet, and they landed with hard grunts and shrieks of surprise.

She sucked air in through her open mouth, unable to breathe through her nose. Her eyes streamed with blurry tears. She could feel a river of liquid gushing out of her nose, landing in her open mouth, making her cough. 

All the men were quiet. There was shock and guilt and confusion, and-

And they’re all _staring._

She leapt to her feet and took off running.

* * *

She bolted around a corner, tearing past several more troopers who leaped back in surprise.

Her throat burnt. She heaved in air through her mouth, but there was a mucus in her throat now, and it made her breaths wheeze. Her nose, her whole face, _throbbed._

She didn’t stop, or even slow down, until she was in her quarters.

She collapsed back against the door, and slid down it slowly. She was bleeding hard, clear blood streaming out of her nose. It soaked into her tunic, warmth spreading down her heaving chest. She was sobbing, and she couldn’t stop, and it wasn’t just the pain. She couldn’t get a grip, couldn’t _make_ herself stop, and she still couldn’t _breathe._

She squeezed her eyes shut and curled up as tight as a fist. A sob tore out of her chest, followed by another, then another. Her face was numb and tingling. Her chest burnt hot, and her mouth tasted like iron and salt and _blood._

The world around her condensed down to the cold metal at her back, her legs pulled in tight to her chest, and the pain in her face. 

It took several long minutes for her to calm down. She slowly, with great effort, began holding her breath every time she breathed in. After that, she managed to time her breathing.

In, _one, two, three;_ hold, _one, two, three;_ out, _one, two, three._

She stood on legs as shaky as a newborn eopie's and stumbled over to her pack. She found the bacta-aids and anti-bacterial, anti-septic cream by touch more than sight, as her eyes hadn’t stopped streaming yet.

She made her way to the ‘fresher and glanced at herself in the mirror. She couldn’t see much, but that was probably for the best. The only things visible were the brown of her skin and of her shelled skull, and a large black blob where here nose should be, saturated deep brown along the edges.

It felt like someone had cut open her nose, shoved a beating heart inside of it, and sewn it back up. Rather than easing, the pain only seemed to be growing.

A knock on the door made her yelp in surprise.

“Sir?” A trooper’s muffled voice called through the door. “I’m a medic. I’m here to help. I’m going to open the door, okay?”

He gave her a beat, and then the door hissed open. True to his word, the trooper was an armoured medic, holding a medpac. A second trooper was standing behind him, but she couldn’t see well enough to determine who he was.

The medic approached slowly, treating her like a spooked, wounded animal. He made no sudden movements, hands raised slightly, and sunk to one knee just outside the ‘fresher.

“Easy,” he said quietly, setting his medpac down by her backpack. “Easy. Force, you’re _tiny.”_

She blinked at him, and almost missed him turning his head to glare over his shoulder.

“You did a real good _fucking_ job here, Crys.”

The trooper in the doorway – Crys, she recognized him now – winced and shuffled a bit further back, managing to look very small for someone so large.

“Not hish fault,” she hiccupped, “Was ‘n accident.”

The medic turned back to her. He tugged off his helmet, still moving slowly. His hair was pulled back into a tight bun, which did absolutely nothing to keep his curls in check. Several tight ripples hung in his face, and while he had frown lines starting to press themselves into the corner of his mouth, his eyes were soft.

“Alright, Kid,” he said, “Katooni, yes?”

She nodded, and felt a twinge of pain run through the back of her neck.

“Good to meet you. I’m CT-Nine-Two-Six-Five. Helix. I’m going to check you over real quick. To do that, I’m going to have to touch your face and neck. That okay with you?”

She nodded again, slower and more carefully this time.

His hands were large, and strong, but almost _too_ soft; even through the rough material of the gloves. He prodded around her cheeks, up to her nose, but stopped when she flinched. He did the same thing with her neck.

“Good news,” he said, “It’s not broken. Only fractured. That means you don’t need it reset.”

She couldn’t quite hold back a sigh of relief.

“Bad news: you definitely have whiplash. I don’t think it’ll need anything more than some bacta, though. Brace yourself; I’m going to shine a light in your eyes, now.”

He grabbed his helmet and switched on the headlight. He held it up in front of her, and it was bright, but not painful. 

“Good. Follow this with your eyes.” He plucked a stylus out of his belt. She did as he asked, tracking it easily.

“Alright, you don’t seem to have a concussion. Great,” he tilted her head down slightly to get a look at her head.

“Hard skull,” she said, offering a smile.

“Built-in helmet? _Nice.”_

He finally took note of the objects in her hands. She’d been clutching them to her chest the entire time. She’d almost forgotten they were there.

He held out his hands expectantly, and after a moment, she dropped the cream and bacta into them.

“Brought your own supplies?” he asked, “You and I are going to get along.”

He pulled off his gloves and warmed some of the cream between his palms, then smeared it lightly over her nose; especially over a light gash on the bridge.

Then he reached for the bacta patches, and she blushed when she realized which ones she’d picked. Master Gurumbi had grabbed those for them when they were younger, and she’d grabbed them by habit. However, they may no longer be…appropriate. Not for a padawan, at least.

Helix pulled out the patch on top, and studied it. On it was a cartoon skyline of Coruscant; navy blue sky, silver-foil buildings, and the windows and lights were yellow, green, and blue. White stars hung in the sky. The Jedi Temple was visible in the background.

“Nice,” he said, “Very nice. I know some brothers who’d kill each-other for patches this fancy.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely,” He glanced in the box at the rest of the patches. The next one was of Naboo; dark blue sky, light blue waterfalls, green trees, and pink and purple buildings. The one underneath was of kashyyyk, with golden trunks and leaves in varying shades of green and yellow.

“These are really neat,” he picked up the Naboo one, “Skywalker ever gets hurt, give him this one. He’ll get the dumbest grin on his face.”

She nodded obediently.

He set the Coruscant patch gently over her nose. The cool strip started working immediately.

“Thank you, Sir,” she said.

 _“And_ polite. I officially like you more than Kenobi.”

She beamed. Her eyes slipped over Helix’s shoulder, and spied Crys still hovering by the door. 

“Sorry, Crys,” she said, “I didn’t mean to shove you guys.”

Crys looked up, surprised. “Oh, no, it- we boxed you in. It’s completely fine. I’m _so_ sorry about that. I didn’t- I really should’ve been more careful.”

“’S okay,” she answered, smiling at him. He finally relaxed.

“So,” Helix said, “You’re Kenobi’s new padawan?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Good. No harm in more jedi.” He closed up her supplies for her, setting them on the cot.

She hid a frown. She felt something…twinge almost, from him, as he said that. Was he lying? Why would he?

“For the record, the medbay is on Deck two. Please don’t be one of those jedi who needs to be tranquilized in the hallways like an escaped zoo animal just to get vaccinated.”

She stared at him, then at Crys, who shrugged.

“I will visit the medbay for all appointments and injuries more severe than bruises and flimsicuts.” She stated firmly.

“Good.” He nodded in approval. “You’re so shiny it physically hurts, by the way.”

“Um,” she asked, “Shiny?”

“Shiny,” he repeated, “Like the armor. Shiny, new, and fresh off the rack. Don’t worry, that never lasts long in the two-twelfth.”

“Is that a good thing, or a bad one?” she asked.

Helix laughed, not unkindly. “Anything else you need while I’m here?”

She abruptly remembered her list. “Yes, please. Where’s the showers?”

“Deck Four. Just poke around, and you’ll find it.”

“Thank you again.”

Helix marched out, grabbing Crys and hauling him along as he went. The door hissed closed behind them.

She sagged, reaching up to prod gently at the patch. It had molded itself to the shape of her swollen nose. It still stung, but the pain was steadily easing away. 

She checked her tunics, and cringed at the dried blood. Tholothian blood was odd, by humanoid standards. Not only was it clear, but it dried into geometric, crystalline shapes. Her tunics were now stiff with it, and she could feel it crusted onto her chest.

She should’ve asked for a laundromat as well. She also needed to collect her boots and lightsaber from the gym. And apologize to the other troopers. And _still_ track down the Captain.

Sighing, she got to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I hope you all like this update. 
> 
> I head-canon that sparring is something of a fix-all solution to any problem in the GAR. Annoyed with someone? Spar. Stressed and overworked? Spar. The shinnies are all shy and nervous and not integrating into the battalion well? _Spar._
> 
> Next update will be next Friday, and it'll be the last for this fic. I'm looking foreword to it! Stay safe!


	4. What Do You Mean I Have A Padawan?

The council session was an unholy mockery of what a civil discussion between several jedi masters should’ve looked like.

Obi-Wan was congratulated on another successful mission, and ordered to visit a mindhealer when he next returned to Coruscant. He agreed, already knowing he wouldn’t be able to find the time.

Master Koon was congratulated for his part in salvaging the mission after a plan everyone knew would fail fell apart. This was where things became ugly, as Master Ti took a moment to air her grievances over not being summoned for the mission in Ahsoka’s place. Mast Ti'in mentioned that it was a delicate, time-sensitive operation, and they didn’t have the time to wait for Master Ti to arrive from Kamino; a trip that would’ve taken approximately nineteen days.

Master Koon also aired his grievances over the plan. According to him, one of his shiny new wolf pups could’ve come up with an equally effective, less traumatic strategy. Kenobi agreed, sharing his own disgruntlement. It was a plan doomed to fail; who’s plan was it, again?

Master Windu sighed, and explained it was the Chancellor’s plan, voted upon and designed by supposed experts in the fields related to the incident; such as hostage situations, slavery, and mass abductions.

Master Fisto motioned for them all to be fired for incompetence. Master Windu belayed that motion.

And then things deteriorated, as they did more and more these days.

He stepped out of the communication room behind the bridge and made for his quarters, grabbing Anakin along the way.

“Wha-” he started, then he caught a look at Obi-Wan’s face and quietened down, following behind him.

Cody was already waiting outside his quarters. Despite an open invitation, he never entered his space without his presence; a sweet but unnecessary gesture. Obi-Wan had nothing worth stealing, and beyond that, he hadn’t lied that morning. His presence, even just the echoes of it, was a comfort.

Obi-Wan brought them both inside and sat on his cot, taking several deep breaths as he did so. He wasn’t angry; only tired and frustrated. It had been a long meeting, and little of real, practical worth had been said.

“Master?” Anakin asked cautiously. He leaned against the wall while Cody took the seat at the desk.

“We’re being rerouted to Medical Station C-fifty-nine in Nemoidian Space,” he told them, “For resupply before our next deployment.”

“What about the colonists?” Anakin asked.

“They’ll be escorted home by the one-oh-fourth,” he explained, “Then Master Koon will be deployed to Aleen to supply aid after a long serious of harsh ground tremors. They mentioned the need to borrow R2-D2, though they’re still finalizing their plan.”

Anakin pursed his lips, unhappy with the concept of loaning out his droid; but if it were for the good of the mission and the planet, he would.

“What measures will be put in place to ensure this doesn’t happen again?” Cody asked.

“None. They’ll be expected to sort that out themselves.”

The silence in the room was deafening.

“A Republic outpost _will_ be set up on their moon,” he continued, “That should act as a deterrent. But more will not be spent on them. According to the Chancellor’s committee, this mission has been costly enough already.”

“…So, that’s it then?” Cody asked, “Back to the war?”

“Back to the war,” he confirmed.

They fell into silence, but not an uncomfortable one. They were all still too tired to be awkward. Anakin didn’t even feel angry anymore; this whole mission, he’d been blazing like a star. Searingly sharp, painfully bright, right on the cusp of going supernova. Now he felt hollowed out and numb; the quiet, lifeless void left behind in the wake of an explosion. The back of his head thunked against the wall.

“Let’s hope this next campaign goes slightly easier,” Obi-Wan said, “For all our sakes.”

Anakin nodded. “Let’s hope. But don’t jinx it, Master. Fate loves to be tempted.”

Obi-Wan managed a smile, but it was a weak one. Sitting hunched over on the bed had started making his wounds ache; he’d need to clean them, and replace the bacta; something he couldn’t do till he was alone.

Cody watched him silently, eyes sharp. Despite having no Force sensitivity to speak of, he had a knack for being able to tell what Obi-Wan was feeling or thinking. Perhaps Kaminoan engineering had included a knack for mind reading? Or, more likely, he simply wasn’t as good at hiding his feelings as he thought he was.

“If that’ll be all, Sir,” he said, “I have an appointment to keep with the medbay, and I have no desire to get sedated.”

“Please,” he said, gesturing to the door, “Be my guest. Helix isn’t here to reign everyone in, and I wouldn’t want anyone to be hunted for sport on my account.”

“I should head out, to,” Anakin said, catching on in an uncharacteristic lack of obliviousness. “I’ll call you later, see about loaning out R2.”

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan replied. As much as Anakin’s attachments could be a matter of concern, it was good to see him taking steps to manage it, and showing a willingness to share and cooperate. Better late than never.

Anakin slipped out quietly, Cody following shortly behind him. He spared him a concerned look as he left.

“Sure you won’t need help, General?”

“I am,” he answered, “Thank you, Cody.”

Cody knew a dismissal when he heard one. He nodded, and left.

Obi-Wan sighed. He probably should’ve accepted the help, but he was still trying to recover some dignity after the night before. He could still feel Cody’s touch, around the edges of the bacta patches, on his shoulder and neck. He needed to get it together, some.

It wouldn’t do to be distracted on the next campaign, after all.

…

It was on their way to that very campaign when it happened.

Despite the draining nature of the unending stream of battles, the two-twelfth spent a frankly _ridiculous_ amount of time in hyperspace. They trucked from one disastrous front to another, slapping band-aids over other generals’ inexperienced mistakes and misplaced confidence. That required a lot of travel, and they’d often go weeks without dropping out of hyperspace for even a minute.

This was a blessing, as far as Cody was concerned. It was impossible for a single sentient to be “up to date” on the kind of flimsiwork he received, but things were no longer falling apart. So, for the first time in a _very_ long time, he actually had an afternoon off.

He sat in the rec room, leaning over a Dejarik board while Kenobi claimed yet another of his pieces. Longshot was sprawled over the couch on the other end of the room, datapad on his face. Cody couldn’t tell if he was asleep or just pretending; he had a habit of that, hoping to hear gossip he could trade in sabbac games later. Tano and Skywalker, who should rightly be on their own ship, were trapped in an arm-wrestling match over the coffee table.

Then Kenobi’s commlink pinged with a priority alert. He reached over to take it, glancing away from the board, and Cody took the opportunity to claim an unguarded piece. The little, red-pink holographic Gamorrean raised its arms and gave a high-pitched victory squeal.

Kenobi shot him a sharp look. Cody kept his face perfectly neutral, though he knew he must radiate some kind of smugness into the Force.

He opened up the message, and scrolled through it, bored by whatever he was reading. Right up until the end, at least, which he reread twice, and then a third time. His eyes widened, and he lost some of the colour in his face.

“Sir?” Cody asked.

 _“Fuck,”_ he replied. “Oh, no.”

Longshot jumped slightly from his spot on the couch, looking up in confusion, and Skywalker and Tano both straightened, forgetting the arm-wrestling match entirely.

“What’s happening?” Skywalker asked, but Kenobi was already up on his feet and speed-walking for the door.

Cody stood and followed, easily keeping pace as the others scrambled up after them. He started running through a mental checklist of what had gone wrong. Did they receive bad intel? Are they flying into a trap? Did the hyperdrive malfunction, sending them careening into a massive star, and allowing them to finally be embraced by the sweet, sweet release of death?

“We need to head to the hangar bay,” Kenobi said, as Skywalker came up on his other side, radiating concern.

“Why?”

“Oh, my padawan is going to arrive in about the next fifteen minutes.”

“Pada- _what padawan?”_ Skywalker demanded.

“Excellent question, Anakin,” he answered, voice tight with strain.

Tano raced ahead at a sprint, turning a corner and disappearing. No-one minded her vanishing much.

No hyperdrive malfunction, then. Damn.

“Wait, wait,” Skywalker said, “Did the council really-”

“Master Yoda, specifically,” Kenobi interrupted, trying to finger-comb his hair into some approximation of neat as he walked. “I just received a notification, signed off on by him, and him alone.”

Skywalker gawked at him as they made their way into the turbolyft, finally letting them stop for breath.

Then he burst out laughing.

“Oh, no,” Kenobi growled, turning on him. “Don’t you laugh at me-”

“I can’t,” he replied, gasping for air, “It’s just; this just feels very karmic, from my perspective, you know? This, this is just-”

“I’m aware,” Kenobi said stiffly. “For what it’s worth, I was _against_ giving you a padawan.”

“What, really? No faith, Master?” Skywalker was starting to gather some semblance of control over himself.

“You were _nineteen,_ freshly knighted and made a general, holding power and responsibility no-one else your age possessed, and you were _still_ adjusting to a prosthetic arm after yours got _sliced off by a Sith Lord._ _Of course_ I voted against giving you a padawan! Frankly, it’s a miracle you haven’t cracked yet!”

Skywalker sobered, losing a deal of his good humor. “Then why’d you go along with it?”

“The council is democratic. I was outvoted. We need to present a united front to the Order and the Republic. We can’t make it seem like we’re struggling with infighting!”

“But you _are_ struggling with infighting!”

“Well, people don’t need to know that!”

Before Skywalker could offer what had to be a scathing retort, the turbolyft dinged, and the door opened into the hanger bay.

It was the usual controlled chaos one saw before a delivery of new supplies. Astromechs were running around like headless chickens, with no observable pattern, direction, or goal. Bay workers and landing aids milled about, while Pincher, the Negotiator’s quartermaster, paced back and forth in front of a row of trembling protocol and inventory droids. The scene was reminiscent of a batch of fresh shinnies being screamed at by a particularly aggressive drill sergeant. Interspersed among all these were people who seemed to be in the hangar just to get in the way.

The flood of voices, beeps, and the clink and clank of metal appliances being tossed around was slightly overwhelming after the dead silence one normally found in the turbolyft. Fortunately, it was a sensation Cody had long since grown used to.

It was the chaos before the chaos; once the ships arrived out of hyperspace, everything would explode into true pandemonium.

“Hey,” Skywalker said as they stepped out of the lyft, “Which padawan did they even send you?”

Kenobi’s eyes went wide. He yanked his datapad out from under his arm and switched it back on.

Skywalker choked on another laugh. “Oh, _Force._ You didn’t check?”

“I was still processing,” he hissed, scrolling through the alert.

They were interrupted by Tano hitting the ground right in front of them, causing Longshot to choke on a lung. His hand went to his heart, and he leaned one hand on his knee.

“Sorry,” Tano said, breezing past him. She held a tray with two thermoses, a mirror, and some kind of spray. She had a comb clenched delicately between her sharp teeth.

“Hold,” she ordered, passing the tray to Skywalker. She grabbed the comb and passed it to Kenobi, following it up with the spray can.

“Dry shampoo,” she said, “Skyguy uses it to hide the fact that he goes a full week without a bath sometimes.”

“Snips!”

Kenobi accepted the supplies gratefully, combing his hair and straightening his tunics with help from the mirror. He didn’t look much more put together than before, but hopefully a dose of ignorance on the padawan’s part and some quick talking on Kenobi’s would have the slight messiness forgotten.

“Caf,” she said, exchanging the tray for the items she’d passed over earlier. “On the right. Tea on the left. The kid’s probably been flown all the way out here alone. They’ll need something familiar.”

“Thank you, Ahsoka,” she said, accepting the tray carefully. “When I die, you can have Master Yoda’s taxidermized corpse.”

Tano’s jaw landed somewhere by her knees. Skywalker choked.

A warning siren wailed overhead. Not an alert for attacks, though Cody still stiffened, expecting one. As one, the entire bay quietened down and turned to look out of the ray shields into the pure black emptiness of space.

It wasn’t empty long. A ship appeared, as if some great, invisible hand had pinched the void, warped it, and then released it again quickly. Four more ships followed it, all of them light cruisers, and all heading straight towards them.

The landing aides took control, forcing everyone to back off the landing pads if they didn’t want to get squished.

Everything went smoothly and calmly during the landing, each ship setting down where it needed to, or at least not landing on anything important. The hiss of the ships’ feet magnetizing to the hangar floor heralded the bedlam to follow.

The people in the hangar drew in a collective breath. The ships dropped their ramps with a hiss and a series of groans. And then all Hell broke loose.

Droids, troopers, and even a handful of natborn officers all rushed out in droves, naively hoping that if they were the fastest, they’d miss the usual rush. As always, they were wrong. The sudden clammer of noise was always jarring after the general quiet of the build-up, and it made Cody grateful to wear a helmet.

Even in the ruckus created by the supplies being dropped off, Cody quickly spotted a feature out of place. A small figure leapt out of one of the ships, swung up onto the roof, and then darted higher, carefully minding the still blisteringly hot engines.

Thank goodness. They’d sent someone he would’ve chosen anyway.

Kenobi also smiled. Some of the tension in his shoulders bled away. He raised a hand, and the hair on Cody’s body stood up straight.

Immediately, her head snapped to them. She quickly hopped off the ship and into the fray.

Cody stood on his toes, and tried to track her progress through the hangar. She ducked under a crate being hauled off her ship, narrowly avoided colliding with an astromech that was _not_ going the speed limit, and darted ahead of a squad of new shinnies marching in perfect, snow-white formation.

She had company. While technically meant to be unloading supplies, Waxer, Boil, and Crys were taking a roundabout route to their drop-off point that just _happened_ to be in Katooni’s wake.

He’d talk to them, later. If she travelled on that ship, then she’d been in hyperspace with them for, what, nine days? She may have mentioned relevant information regarding her training and assignment to them that he could use.

She was only slightly breathless when she made it over to them. She had a pack on her back, filled to capacity, and she was telegraphing nervousness loudly enough that even Cody, who was as Force sensitive as a very determined brick, could feel it.

“Welcome aboard,” Kenobi greeted, no sign of his earlier rush present. He was as calm and composed as ever.

“Thank you, Master Kenobi,” she answered, accepting the tea. She nodded to Cody. “Good to see you again.”

“Likewise, Sir,” he replied, maintaining his own professionalism as well as he could.

“Good to have you along,” Skywalker cut in, grinning, “We have to get going to _the Resolute_ right about now, but come find me later. There are several embarrassing stories you have to hear about our master before you start training.”

“Anakin,” Kenobi warned, but he’d already grabbed his own padawan and made off. The two were bickering with each-other immediately. _Please,_ he thought, _let that not be my future. Let me not have to put up with that._

“I believe you’d like to get situated before anything else?” he asked, “It’s a long way from Coruscant.”

“Yes, please,” she answered, “Though the trip wasn’t bad. Waxer and Boil kept me company, and I spent some time with Helix and Crys. I like them; they were very kind.”

Cody makes a note of that, and he sees Kenobi do the same. If they had no warning of an incoming padawan, the men didn’t get one either. They must have had to adapt on the fly. He’d arrange something for them later; a reward, or at least an explanation.

“I’m glad,” Kenobi answered, “I also apologize for the lack of notice. I heard you had something of a rush?”

“Yes, but it’s alright. I’m happy with how things turned out.”

Kenobi smiled. “As am I. If you don’t mind me asking, what happened here?” he tapped the tip of his nose, “You’re a tad swollen.”

Her hand snapped up, and she rubbed her nose with the back of her hand self-consciously. “Just an accident,” she said, “I hurt myself while sparring, about a week ago. It’s fine.”

Someone in the crowd of clones yelled: _“Crys kicked her in the face!”_

Both he and Kenobi look up in tandem, finding Crys in the rush with all the accuracy of a Y-wing targeting system. As if following a rehearsed cue, the clones surrounding him took up a sudden policy of social distancing, leaving him in his own vacant circle.

He had his back to them. He straightened up, confused, turned, and jolted back into a shipping crate.

“It was an accident!” He said, bringing his hands up in an _I surrender._

“It really was,” Katooni added.

On the one hand, Cody was absolutely reporting Crys to Alpha. ARC training taught lethality, but also control. If Crys didn’t have that down pat, he might need some supplementary training.

On the other, nobody was going to hear about this. Not any of Cody’s batchmates, at the very least. The new padawan getting wounded before they’d even made it to the front lines was just _embarrassing._

On yet another hand, if she was comfortable enough to spar with the men already, that was a good sign she liked them; and would be more likely to protect them. He’d take that as a win.

“It’s alright, then,” Kenobi said, his tone final. He was still smiling, but it was a touch too sharp.

That protective streak for the shinnies was kicking in already. Force save him.

A lull settled into the conversation as Crys fled, and Cody decided this was a good time to get them going. He cleared his throat.

“Quarters, Sir?”

Kenobi blinked at him, then smiled gratefully. “Good idea. Let’s get you settled, padawan.”

She beamed, and followed him obediently when he turned to the turbolyft.

Cody decided to follow later. They’d need a moment to adjust to one another. And he wanted to speak to Waxer and Boil, who he caught slipping away to speak to other veterans of the two-twelfth.

Thank the Force he hadn’t deleted the training schedule Rex had sent him. It seemed he was going to need it.

* * *

**GAR** Commander Group Chat  
“Fuck-Ups Anonymous”

Mr. Secura: UHH, GUYS WHAT THE FUCK???

Pondsy: ???

Pondsy: Ah. The padawans arrived?

Green Guts: Must have.

Codes: yes. Also, you’re dead to me for not warning me in advance.

Green Guts: don’t blame me. I only found out two days ago. Commander Offee went on a… surprisingly aggressive rant when she found out. PS are jedi’s eyes supposed to glow yellow when they’re pissed? Asking for a friend

Foxy-Moxy: Someone explain

Mr. Secura: We have. Padawan.

Mr. Secura: it’s a wookie

Mr. Secura: it’s a BABY WOOKIE

Foxy-Moxy: HA HAHAAAA

Keeli-ng me softly: Us to??? They sent us Ganodi? She’s cute and we’re happy to have her, but we’re deploying right fuckin now, and a few of us have. Concerns

Pondsy: anyone else?? Colt, weren’t you getting one?

Colt: APPARENTLY???

Colt: thanks for the warning. Kid’s arriving tomorrow. General Ti was NOT HAPPY to learn Yoda went behind her back to issue her a padawan.

ALPHA: AND NO-ONE THOUGHT TO WARN ME???

ALPHA: disgraceful. All of you

Codes: oh, it gets worse

Codes: gimmee a sec

Codes: newpadawan.jpg

ALPHA: wtf is that an infant?? What is she, 5? 6?

Codes: 6. Just.

Green Guts: …Commander Offee’s rant makes sense now, holy fuck

Mr. Secura: Oh, you haven’t seen anything

Mr. Secura: hesbasicallynaked.jpg

Bacca-Bacca: oh fuck??

Keeli-ng me softly: tinychild.jpg

Thorn-in-my-side: Are they

Thorn-in-my-side: Are they sure this is a good idea???

Codes: Kenobi doesn’t think so. He hides it well, but he’s actually really pissed

Mr. Secura: he’s not alone. General Secura’s gone quiet. She’s never this quiet. It’s starting to scare me

Monkk: thank fuck that’s not me

Monkk: that’s not me, is it???

Where-Wolf?: Monkk?

Monkk: …wehave1to.jpg

Neyo-yo: wow. Have fun, guys

Cursed Bastard: We’re doing alright with our little guy, actually. There are the obvious safety concerns, but we had weeks to prepare in advance. Everyone was briefed, the medics were supplied with his medical records. General Topal was thorough. Did they send supplies along with your kids??

Codes: nope.

Mr. Secura: _fuck._

Keeli-ng me softly: since when has the republic ever thought that far ahead??

Colt: …I’ll talk to Ti about arranging something

Foxy-Moxy: Prayer Circle for commanders Cody, Colt, Bly, Monkk, and Captain Keeli. K in the chat

ALPHA: k

Where-Wolf?: k

Mythosaurus Rex: k

Bacca-Bacca: k

Pondsy: K

Green Guts: k

Cursed bastard: K

Neyo-yo: k

Thorn-in-my-side: k

Keeli-ng me softly: fuck you _all_

* * *

**Private** Chat

“We put up with Kenobi and all we got was this dumb chat”

ALPHA_17: wHAt the **FUCK** DID YOU DO?

ALPHA_17: WHY IS THERE SOME WEIRD GHOST JEDI THING SAYING **YOU GAVE IT PERMISSION** TO TAKE A CADET????

ALPHA_17: AND WHY DID IT DROP THREE **MORE** OF THEM ON **ME???**

ALPHA_17: ANSWER THIS YOU **BASTARD**

Codes: Ah

Codes: About that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **GAR Chat Key:**
> 
> Codes: Cody  
> Mr. Secura: Bly  
> Pondsy: Ponds  
> Green Guts: Gree  
> Foxy-Moxy: Fox  
> Keeli-ng me softly: Keeli  
> Colt: Colt  
> Alpha: Alpha-17  
> Thorn-in-my-side: Thorn  
> Monkk: Monkk  
> Where-Wolf?: Wolffe  
> Neyo-yo: Neyo  
> Cursed Bastard: Jinx  
> Bacca-Bacca: Baccara 
> 
> And another fic done! Thank you everyone for all the support you've shown! I'm blown away by all the attention this fic has received. I'll get the next one done ASAP, but my University is open and running right now, and I'm going to be flooded with work. I'll hope to get the next fic up before next month, but medical anthropology is not a field for those who love free time...
> 
> See you soon! :D

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! *Waves*
> 
> So, uh. "Two weeks", I said it would take to get this up. I may have been a little optimistic about my own levels of productivity. However, for this fic a new chapter will be updated on a weekly basis. 
> 
> Also, there's fanart on Tumblr for the series! https://artsyatlas.tumblr.com/post/641988346313342976/commandike-chapter-1
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!


End file.
